Page 104 of Tapeworld Induction

“And yet…” Peacoat’s face went dour, and a single tear dropped as if on command from his eyes. “We’re rotting inside.” His voice broke. It sounded fake. “Our replacement supplements aren’t enough. We’ve never gone this long without meat as a species.” The man took a hand to his thick salt-and-pepper beard, a desperate look on his face. His cadre of cronies mumbled in agreement.

Dylan knew this wasn’t true, but she didn’t feel like debating him. His ability to shed tears wouldn’t convince anyone with a modicum of knowledge about humanity’s struggle through its first years.

“If not for the lack of meat,” a woman interjected, almost shouting, “I wouldn’t have to spend half my day consuming various pharmacopeia! You should see my psychopharmacologist’s bill!” Her eye make-up was dark enough to shut out the sun. Dylan suspected the lack of meat wasn’t the main reason this woman needed a litany of drugs to function…

“Enjoy your evening.” Her voice was a knife.

She heard them cackle as she walked away. “Veg fucker,” one said.

“What we need is for Eltarc to come back and clean these people up!” said another.

Fuck them. They weren’t even hiding their allegiances to the defunct Second Revivalists.

She recognised a few of the more famous people roaming the room, though most of the people here were comfortably beneath the threshold of fame, representatives of more famous and/or better-paid people than anyone present. Or simply those who preferred millionaire anonymity, like Peacoat back there. Was everyone else here secretly an Eltarc Romly fan? She wondered about the rumours that Eltarc hadn’t died during the revolution. Surely not…

That conversation had turned her queasy. Why didn’t she take him down verbally like she told herself she would, when the time came to debate someone attached to the old ways? Where were her facts and statistics, the studies and the science? She felt like a soldier sent off to war, who became a pacifist upon landing on the beach. No belligerence, no defence. She kicked the floor in frustration, nails digging into her bare arms.

“Don’t let old Taggart bother you too much.”

Finding herself at the corner of the room, hiding among the crowd without even realising, Dylan looked up to see a woman dressed in a black A-line dress.

“Astrid Fern-Lock,” the woman said, extending a silk-gloved hand.

Fuck.

Dylan struggled to keep her mouth from hanging open too long. Astrid’s expression was neutral, but did she already know who Dylan was? That she was Isaak’s friend… girlfriend? That thought opened up a whole other world of questions in Dylan’s mind and she shut it down quick. Focus on who’s in front of you. Arm up, shake her hand. Remember your cover story.

“Jean Morgan,” she said, giving the fake identity that got her in. She dry-swallowed. “Lovely to meet you.”

When she took her hand back, she immediately didn’t know what to do with her arms. Not wanting to cross them again, she held them behind her back like a Victorian child. Appear as disarming as possible for Astrid…

“Enchantée!”

“Are you French?” Dylan asked.

Astrid took a hand to her chest. “Oh my, no, not at all. I just love the language. Full of quite excellent sayings. ‘Vouloir, c’est pouvoir.’ Much neater than ‘Where there’s a will, there’s a way’.”

Did she mean something by that?

Astrid was taller than Dylan, and she stood there and stared down at her, awkwardness growing. Dylan simply smiled, resisting the almost overwhelming inclination to curtsy to this woman.

Please, just stop talking to me.

“Did Taggart bully you with one of his meat diatribes?” Astrid looked over at Peacoat, still guffawing with his gang. “He’s a softie really. It’s all for show. He loves playing devil’s advocate. At his home in the country he has some hundred sheep, all well cared for and not to be eaten, I assure you.” Her face had gone serious. There was almost a desperate need to convince Dylan. After a moment, it relaxed again. “Tell me, Ms Morgan, what brought you to my Night of Entertainment? Are you a corporate guest or” – she paused and looked Dylan up and down – “an artist?” There was judgement behind Astrid’s eyes. It made her sick.

“Work. I’m here for work, Mrs Fern-Lock.”

“Please, it’s Ms. I haven’t been married for years now. That’s a freedom you can’t afford to lose at my age.”

Dylan smiled. “And what age is that?” Zing.

The tension grew between them like rope drawn taut.

“What outfit are you with?” Astrid asked, dodging the jab.

Dylan bubbled with an anger she could just about contain. She pictured Astrid preparing the Sleeper for Isaak, kidnapping his mind into the trapworld she’d prepared. This cunt.

It took a few seconds for Astrid’s question to sink in.